


Imagine.....

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: The Night Manager (TV), The Night Manager - Jean Le Carré
Genre: F/M, Mild Smut, One Shot, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 07:51:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6146773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine your car breaking down outside Jonathan Pine’s secluded cottage in Nowhere, Devon.</p><p>WARNING! SPOILERS FOR EPISODE 2</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imagine.....

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first “imagine” fanfic. Please be gentle.

Imagine your car breaking down outside Jonathan Pine’s secluded cottage in Nowhere, Devon.

 

The waves lap gently at the coastline. The sky is so blue that it almost hurts to look at it. It’s late Summer. The sun beats down, bouncing off the bright red paintwork of your vehicle.

 

You know your rental car well enough to recognise the signs of an engine fault. If the persistent blinking of the little orange light on the dash wasn’t enough, your little Fiat 500 is whirring louder than a washing machine.

 

As you pull up on the road and apply the handbrake, the sputtering of engine eases off as the car gratefully shuts down. You filled the tank with petrol about twenty miles up the road, so it isn’t that. It’s more serious.

 

You get out of the car, your keys in your hand, intending to lift the bonnet and check the damage. As you do so, you notice a man walking towards you down the rough-hewn path.

 

He looks a little rough-hewn himself. Tall. A shock of honey-blonde hair, ruffled by the wind. Great cheekbones. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his black leather jacket. His long legs are encased by jeans. His stride eats up the road.

He comes to a halt by your car. You lift your head from your engine inspection to squint up at him. He’s better looking up close. His scruffy jaw, leather jacket and stonewashed jeans are the trademarks of a drifter. A bad boy.

 

But despite these things, his blue-grey eyes are kind.

 

He’s handsome as all hell.

 

Later you would realise that seeing the warm kindness in his eyes was your tipping point.

 

“Hey. Are you all right?”

 

You explain the car situation, and find yourself saying that after one heck of a break-up, you’ve decided to travel around the most beautiful parts of the UK whilst on sabbatical. You hired a Fiat 500 as it’s your dream car. You tell him all this with a rueful smile. Only last month you were planning a wedding. Now you’re having a break from reality.

 

He smiles slightly and you think that perhaps a break from reality might not be so bad.

 

He tells you that he knows a little bit about engines and the two of you tinker around. But before long it becomes clear that your little metal baby is a hot a mess and that she’ll need the attentions of a mechanic. “I can call someone for you,” the man offers.

 

“Thanks.” You tuck your hair behind your ear and realise that you haven’t even exchanged names. “I’m (y/n).”

 

“Jack.”

 

You shake hands. He has wide palms, long fingers. Pianist’s hands.

 

He asks if you want to wait inside and have some coffee. It might take some time for the mechanic to arrive.

 

Even though you can’t see another soul around, you’re not scared. You say yes. As he straightens up from his second look under the bonnet, you see heat flare in his gaze. Something electric passes between you, something understood without the need for words.

 

You get as far as the huge, bowed old oak tree that stands near the pretty old cottage. He backs you into it. You suck in a deep breath, feeling the tree bark bite into your back through the thin summer dress you’re wearing. He looks at you with those azure eyes, shot through with grey, and you think that in that moment he looks half wild, as if anything could happen.

 

And you think you would let it.

 

Your legs falter a bit at his nearness. It’s intoxicating.

Unless you sidestep, you won’t be able to get away. He has you trapped.

 

The sun moves behind the clouds, and for a second Jack is half bathed in light, half in shadow.

 

“What do you want?” he asks you softly. His deep voice is for the most part unaccented – your friends would probably say he was from “up country.” The four words promise many things. Things you haven’t experienced for years, since your own relationship had steadily started going south.

 

All the moisture evaporates from your mouth as he touches you very lightly, just skimming a finger from your collarbone, down your sternum, stopping at the little white belt around your dress. Every cell in your body comes alive just at that featherlight touch.

 

A thousands unsaid words hang in the air between you.

 

You should go. But you don’t move a muscle. 

“Are you afraid?” he asks.

You shake your head. 

He kisses you gently at first, one hand sliding into your hair. He tastes faintly of coffee, and smells of woodsmoke and clean soap. It’s a very heady combination.  
You hear a small whimpery sound, and realise belatedly that it came from your own mouth. Jack pulls back for a second and searches your gaze. He finds whatever he’s looking for, because his next kiss is furious. Passionate. Deep. You loop your arms around his neck and throw yourself in for the ride. You don’t want him to stop. The stubble on his face abrades your skin and you welcome the tiny hurt.

 

You curl your hand into the back of his jacket as he pushes you up against the tree and begins devouring your neck. The skin there is very sensitive to his touch. His breath is hot against your pulse point. Your heart hammers.

 

You wonder if he’ll remember you when you’re gone, when you drive off in your red little car until you can’t see him in your rearview mirror anymore.

 

He kisses you again until your head spins. The chirping of Summer birds, the distant whirring of a tractor, the sound of the waves stroking the sandy shore, all fall away. He cups his hands under your bottom and you follow his lead, lifting your legs and wrapping them tightly around his narrow waist. The unyielding tree bark is at your back and his solid, warm chest is at your front.

 

Your entire body feels like it might turn to liquid fire at any moment. Impatient, you shove your hands under the shoulders of his jacket. He holds you with each arm in turn until the jacket falls to the soft, dry grass. His dark blue t-shirt intensifies the colour of his eyes.

 

You cup his face with your hands and he looks at you, serious mouth and warm, kind eyes.

 

It’s a killer combination. You know instinctively that if you asked him to stop, he would.

 

So when he says he wants to take you inside, you don’t say no. You didn’t think you could resist him if life your depended on it.

* * *

Afterwards, he offers you coffee and biscuits in the cottage kitchen. You wait whilst makes the drinks, drumming your fingers on the scarred wooden tabletop. There’s a huge wooden counter near the door, dividing the simple room into kitchen and dining space, and you picture him cooking there, no apron, a tea towel slung haphazardly over his shoulder.

 

He pours the hot beverage into a stoneware cup the same arresting blue as his eyes. The cafetiere has definitely seen better days, but his movements are smooth and precise.

 

Even after what you’ve done with him, you’re nervous, and you joke that he’s serving you as if you’re in Claridges, instead of a little cottage in the middle of Bumfuck, Devon.

 

Smiling slightly, he says nothing.

 

As he sits down himself – he has coffee, but no biscuit – you realise that it wasn’t an hour ago that he was deep inside you as his hands worked over your body, as you arched against him. As he made you feel free in ways you hadn’t for, perhaps, years.

 

Yet you hardly know more than his name. Not his past. Not his future.

 

His gaze meets yours as the sky begins to darken, the last gasp of Summer still hanging humid in the air. Your pulse kicks up a notch at the look in his eyes.  
You hear the noise of a van outside. The mechanics have arrived to look at your car.

 

You realise that you’re a little afraid to stay.

 

But you make no move to go.


End file.
